The Complete Collection. William Wharton

I’ve sung. It’s too far inside. As a boy, I decide to put some water in the flight cage so Perta can bathe. I want it to be something special. When my mother isn’t in the kitchen, I take the cut glass butter dish she got when her mother died. We never use it except for company so I’m sure she won’t notice if it’s missing one night. I put the dish in the bottom of the cage that afternoon after I’ve fed all the birds.

      I move two nests of young birds into the other flight cage; they’re eating egg food and starting to crack seed. I’m saving the male flight cage for Perta and myself. I call her Perta because that’s the closest word I can think of for the sound I know her by.

      So, now I’m getting into the dream, and in the dream I’m forcing myself to sleep again so I can dream.

      Perta comes in the dream-dream. The water is on the floor, in the late afternoon sunlight, just as it was when I left it that afternoon. The light is going through the cut glass and making rainbows on the floor and on the back wall. I wait patiently, on my perch in the upper, darker part of the aviary. I know I’m making it happen, I’m controlling the dream in the dream but I also know I have feelings and knowings beyond myself, that I can’t know what will happen. I’m into the furthest back parts of my mind.

      Perta hops onto the side of the dish and puts her beak into the clear, cold water. She lets it roll back down her throat, tipping her head back and thrusting her breast forward, stretching upward on her thin legs. She does this again. I watch. Then, she pushes her face into the water and splashes back under her wings. She flaps her wings to capture the cold water under the warmest parts of her wings, inside where the down of softest feathers is. She does this two or three times before she lightly springs into the water, arches her back, tilts her head and starts throwing the clean water onto the feathers between her wings on her back.

      I can see all this with unnatural clarity. It’s as if I’m beside her. I see each drop remain intact and roll off the soft feathers. I can slow down the rapid movements of her bath and see them happen slowly, unfolding with infinite grace.

      Then, I start to sing. I’m singing, and I’ve made no conscious decision to do this. Perta has flown onto a perch and is preening herself. She doesn’t seem to hear me. I’m excited. I feel hot blood rushing through me. All my muscles are contracted and my wings are lifted in tension. I’ve pulled myself tall on my legs and I’m rocking back and forth with my song; dancing to my own rhythm, aiming all of me toward Perta. I feel a sense of haste, of need, of desire for completion. Perta continues her preening.

      I fly down next to her. I land beside her on the perch and increase the strength and desire of my song. Perta pays no attention. She doesn’t turn her head or move. I edge toward her. She doesn’t move away. I’m prepared to have her fly from me; I want to chase her, to sing to her in flight. I come closer. She reaches back with her beak and pulls out, straightens the feathers on her back. There’s only one thing to do; I feel it inside myself. I fly over Perta and lower myself onto her. I’m turgid with passion.

      There’s nothing! I come down on the place where Perta was and there’s nothing at all. I’m alone! I find myself falling, not from the perch but from the dreams. I fall out of my dream-dream into my dream; know myself for a second, alone, asleep on the top perch, then I fall again out of the dream and into my bed in my room.

      I wake up. It’s the first time I’ve had a wet dream. I’ve kept hearing about wet dreams but never had one. I go into the bathroom and wash myself off. I bring back the washcloth and wipe up the sheets.

      I lie back and feel as if I’ve fallen from a far place. I’m terribly alone again.

      That weekend I go looking for her. I know she has to be somewhere. I must’ve seen her and not known it. I couldn’t make her up completely. Instinctively, I go to Mr Lincoln’s first. His cages are in full breeding. He shows me his new young birds. He has two very dark ones. He tells me he thinks he’ll have his pure black canary in only about ten more years if he keeps going at the rate he’s going. He’s worked out a chart on a curving graph. He says the getting darker tapers off as you get closer. The difference looks less and you’re always having regressions. He calculates he’s ninety percent of the way; it’s going to take ten more years to get to 99.96 percent black. He points to himself and says, ‘I ain’t even ninety percent black myself, not by a long shot.’

      I ask him if he has any females he’s not using. I want to see if she’s there. She isn’t in any of the breeding cages. I knew she wouldn’t be. He points to the cover over his flight cage on the left. He says he keeps it covered because these free females will flirt with the males in the breeding cages and those males’ll sing back, and sometimes a female on a nest will get so mad, she’ll abandon the nest. I’d never thought about that. He tells me he’s going to sell off these females; most of them are sterile, or lay an egg or two per nest, and none of them are important on his breeding charts.

      I look into the cage and there are about ten females. I see her right away. It’s Perta exactly. Some part of me, the bird part, remembered her. I’m in love with her as a boy. I fell in love with her in my dream as a bird but it’s come through to my life as a boy. I have to have her; I turn to Mr Lincoln and point her out. It seems so strange to see her as a bird when I’m a boy; I feel as if I’m spying on her. It’s as if I’m looking through a keyhole and seeing something I’m not supposed to see.

      ‘You mean that one there?’

      He’s pointing. I nod.

      ‘She’s not going to do you much good. I’ve had her for two years now and she hasn’t had a fertile egg yet. I’ve tried three different males on her. The last one was the most ruttinest buck of a bird you can imagine. She just has a regular four clear eggs every time. I’m sure she’s been bred, but there’s something wrong with her.’

      Mr Lincoln watches her with me. She’s moving sideways, back and forth on the perch. She’s seeing me. I know it.

      ‘I don’t know anybody I hate enough to sell her off to. I should wring her neck but she’s such a pretty little thing I can’t get myself to do it. Still, there’s no good in a female who won’t give off a fertile egg. I’m sure she’d make a great little mother, too. You should see the fine nest she builds; and she sits it tight and brave as you could like, all for nothing.’

      ‘I want to buy her.’

      I get it out. I’m watching her and I know she’s watching me. She never looked at me in the dream-dream. Would she look at me now?

      ‘I won’t sell her. I’ll give her to you. Save me having to wring her neck. All she does is eat seed.’

      I really don’t want to buy her. I’m glad Mr Lincoln is giving her to me. It’s as if he’s her father and he’s giving me permission to marry his daughter. I can’t say anything so I put out my hand to shake with Mr Lincoln. He doesn’t know what to do for a minute but then he sees I’m serious. He reaches out and takes my hand in both his. He looks into my eyes. My eyes are filling with water, not that I’m about to cry, I’m excited and happy.

      ‘Are you all right, boy? Have you been sick or something?’

      I shake my head. I don’t want to talk. When you’ve been a bird, talking seems crude as grunting. Mr Lincoln knows somehow, turns away and goes into the flight cage. He has no trouble catching her; he just goes over and picks her off the perch. She wants to be caught. I know that. He takes her out in his hand, turns her upside down and blows away the feathers around her vent.

      ‘See? She’s right ready. You’d think she’d be a perfect breeder.’

      I close my eyes and don’t look. Mr Lincoln doesn’t notice. He turns Perta around and rubs his fingers over the top of her head.

      ‘See? She has little eyebrow markings over each eye, almost like human eyebrows. I never seen that on a bird before.’

      I nod my head. He hands her to me. I feel her heart beating against my hand. Mr Lincoln goes to get a small carrying box for me but I say I’ll carry her in my hand. I have a terrible advantage.